swan, ibid

we are beautiful
and a constant jury of one.


these sorrowed leaves
fall the length of a skyscraper


in the sequence
of a pulse.


my tactile you
is the pound of bricks


and the other you
is made of feathers—


never touch bottom.
i race a ladder up each window,


stretch my arms,
squeeze eyes into the game of childhood,


open, forget my fingers
were spread.

Michael Prihoda lives in central Indiana. He is the editor of After the Pause, an experimental literary magazine and small press. His work has received nominations for the Pushcart Prize and the Best of the Net Anthology and he is the author of eight poetry collections, the most recent of which is Years Without Room (Weasel Press, 2018).

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